


Tell Me, Is It Worth It?

by sleepandsweetener



Category: OMORI (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, F/M, Heavy Angst, I swear it has a happy ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Intrusive Thoughts, Post-Alternate Ending, Post-Canon, Spoilers, Yes it Is, im so sorry, just stick with me, totally not me self-projecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29272149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepandsweetener/pseuds/sleepandsweetener
Summary: It’s been three months, and Hero is back in school. It was supposed to be a clean slate — an escape. But Something is after him, and lately, he’s been left wondering if any of this was worth it at all.Nevertheless, everything will be okay.He thinks.ORHero must face his guilt and sadness without ever learning the truth.*~*This takes place after the alternate route where both Basil and Sunny take their own lives. All content warnings from OMORI may apply. I’ll update the tags as I write if anything changes. Enjoy!
Relationships: Hero/Mari (OMORI)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90





	1. The Chain Rule

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll try to update when I can, but I’ve been very busy with school, so they might not be super frequent! Sorry :(

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a normal night.

Hero glanced over at the alarm clock perched atop his desk. 2:07 AM. He sighed. _Nothing a little homework can’t fix._ Aside from the flashing clockface, the only other light source in the room came from his desk lamp, the one Kel had gotten him for his birthday last year. 

The lamp was most certainly a gift. He distinctly remembered Kel’s words in his ear as he opened it: “It suits you, Hero!” He agreed -- it did suit him. There was nothing overly striking about its pragmatic design, white metal body doing its job as intended. At first, he was confused. Why this specific lamp, of all things? Then he saw the bulb, and everything fell into place. The lightbulb was special. At the time, he didn’t understand why; he only knew that it was. At the time, that had been enough. Originally, he supposed it was all in the glass, bending and refracting a warm, steady fuzz. Just watching its ambient glow was like living a warm September afternoon, one that kissed the skin and left the stomach bursting with content. 

The lightbulb was fascinating: in his eyes, it didn’t just light the space it resided in, but aptly understood each unique facet. He asked Kel where he’d gotten it, desperate for any clue as to how it effortlessly captured a star’s embrace. Kel had only laughed, smile wide. “A magician never reveals his secrets!” He couldn’t argue with that -- Kel never failed when it came to gifts, after all.

Now, the lightbulb was necessary. It glowed and glowed, never sharp, never dull. It was stable, it was safe, and it stayed on. A necessity was a need after all -- an inevitable. And ever since… his eyes darted back to its pale yellow center. _The lightbulb stayed on._ Plus, it came in handy when it was time for homework, which was all the time. It wasn’t like he had a roommate to be bothered by it, either. His mom made sure of that. “A single room,” she said, “for privacy, and weekly therapy sessions with a school counselor.” If it was last year, maybe he would have cared, protested even. This year, it was different. Besides, it was only another obligation to fulfill -- one even he couldn’t mess up. 

The smile on his mother’s face made it all worth it. “I’ve been doing research on the computer,” she had told him, face animated, expressions wide. “I looked at every counselor on your school’s website, which was a lot, but I think I found the best match.” Still smiling, she wrapped him in a too-tight hug, one only a mom could give. “Only the best for the best, Hero!” Admittedly, he wasn’t overly keen on the therapy concept, but he didn’t dare object. His mom was trying, and he had to make sure her efforts didn’t fall on deaf ears. Seeing her happy was enough.

Kel was trying too: his high school basketball tryouts were coming up fast, and judging by the beast Kel had become on the court, he would easily make the varsity team. Though Kel had originally insisted against needing therapy, he proved to be no match for their mom, who forced him to go anyway. To their parents’ shock, he actually found the sessions quite helpful; it was a new thing to do, at least. “I don’t _need_ therapy,” he explained while on the phone with him one night, “but… it is nice to have someone just listen to you, no strings attached! I can talk about whatever I want, and they never get bored, or annoyed, or tell me to be quiet. I totally get it now!” He figured as much: though Kel liking therapy had completely stunned his parents, it hadn’t surprised him at all. Kel loved to talk; he knew it would only do him good. 

Hero was trying. _No, you’re not._ Yes, he was. He was helpful here, at school. People relied on him, needed him. He still had straight A’s, his notes were never unfinished, and he always looked presentable in class. Who cares about what his room looked like? It’s not like he was going to let anyone in. _You can’t even clean your room._ A room, no, a glorified closet, because college was like that. _You barely packed anything, and your room is still filthy._ Who cares? _She would have cared._ She was dead. 

What he did care about was his calculus homework, which as it turned out, apparently wasn’t due until next week. Was he really that far ahead? _Nothing a little homework can’t fix_ . He studied the problem at hand, mechanical pencil rapping a soft rhythm against the wooden desktop. _Solve for dy/dx: y = cos^2_ _(√3x)._ Great. Nothing the Chain Rule couldn’t solve. First, he’d shift it into an easier format to work with. He began to mark his page.

y = (cos√3x)^2.

y’ =

y’

  
  


y… 

  
  


Why? 

Why did they… why did she have to die? 

_You were never good enough for her._ “I know,” he whispered. _You were never good enough for anyone._ “I know,” he said, swallowing hard, lips quivering slightly. _You were useless then, and you’re useless now._ He gripped his pencil hard, pressing down into the page, fingers shaking. _You’ll always be useless._ Harder and harder he pushed, until the lead broke, a loud snap filling the room with echoes of its short-lived despair. The graphite had broken, and tear-filled eyes found the page, a large smudge filling the equation, rendering it unreadable -- gray. Lonely tears discovered solace in the pages’ darkest marks, smearing it further, swirling it into bitter incoherence. “I know.” He tried to push down the eraser for more lead, but his hands were shaking, and his body was shaking, and he knew then that it was over.

He hated the Chain Rule. Hated how one thing led to another, how he was powerless to stop it. Take the derivative. Take the first, the second, the third. Take and take, and leave nothing but pain, and take some more, until it all zeroed out in the end. How was that valid? How was that balanced? How was that fair? He had to push forward. Nothing a new day couldn’t fix. _Push and push, until you snap_ . “I won’t snap.” He was not a pencil. _Body like plastic, spine like lead._ It was over: his least favorite part of the night had begun. More than anything, he hated admitting defeat. But he was useless now. Something was here.

Something liked to bother him, especially at night, when clouds flitted lazily past the moon, sometimes allowing its rays to peek in through the window. He supposed it made sense. Shadows did look best in an ever-changing lightscape; they could stretch and morph how they pleased. It used to invade his dreams, too, back in Faraway Town, when the days were hot and the air was thick and suffocating. Now, he knew better. If he went to bed early, the limbo between sunset and moonrise would render himself an open door, an easy target for the mental defilement that was sure to ensue. He couldn’t let that happen. Not again.

Instead, he stayed awake each night and waited. Patience was a virtue, and he found that if he waited long enough, Something would present itself here: more specifically, on the glass windowpane. He appreciated this important, albeit minute consistency: it was scary, sure, but it was familiar, and this way, he could even make its acquaintance. It was what he deserved. _You don’t deserve anything._ “I know.” He looked up, gaze automatically fixing on the windowpane where sure enough, it sat. Tonight, it was a spider. Most nights, it was a spider. He hated spiders. That was why he waited. It couldn’t hurt him here, couldn’t crawl into his mind. It couldn’t come in at all. Not when the lightbulb was on. The lightbulb stayed on, and it was a star, and Something sat on the outside of the windowpane, knocking. All he had to do was deny it entry, let it enjoy the crisp autumn night. It was easier for both of them that way.

It was terrifying, really. Heart beating erratically, he had never stopped shaking, shallow breaths doing little to remedy pure fear. Still, he looked. Eight eyes of different shapes and colors stared back, daggers that he made sure never quite pierced his chest. He smiled. _Maybe if you had only smiled more._ “Maybe.” He half walked, half staggered into bed, sheets splayed in all directions -- unmade. That, and they were still sweaty from the night before. _When was the last time you washed these?_ He untangled the covers, pulling them over his head completely, wrapping himself in a cocoon. Not a single body part would leave this space until the sun was high and the alarm clock buzzed and Something left him alone. He didn’t technically have to follow this rule. It just felt safer. He felt safe.

 _You hate yourself._ He was safe, but he was also tired. Premed was ruthless. _You hate yourself._ He needed to sleep. He had class tomorrow, 8:00 AM sharp. If his alarm was set for seven, that would give him… four hours? _You hate yourself._

“I hate myself.” 

_Good night._

“Good night.”

There was a circle, a ring of pale yellow light, and it filtered through his sheets, welcoming him with its embrace. It was a warm September afternoon in Faraway Town, and everyone was happy. Everything was okay.

Everything was going to be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: the Calc problem featured in this chapter was one I got wrong on my AP Calc test last week (and yes, I did cry about it)
> 
> I have a general idea of where I want to take this plot, so hopefully it will be good! Feedback is always appreciated!


	2. Conditioned Response

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new dawn, a new dilemma.

When Hero awoke, he found himself on the rocky shores of an unknown beach. A precipice, he quickly realized, was where he stood: edge separating one body from another. Was this sliver of coastline all it took to permanently separate the two? There was the land behind him, vast and firm, and there was the ocean before him, equally vast but oh-so turbulent. Its waves crashed and mulled, gravity pushing and pulling in an endless loop, a deep blue. The ocean did not still -- it was a fact of life. He knew this, and he walked, letting the tide lap at his feet.

It was cruel. The ocean always reached for the shore, yearning for the land, foamy fingers outstretched. They would get so close, and for a moment, the two bodies would meet within spitting distance. Alas, gravity never failed to follow, and the water never made it past the rocks and sand, firm earth slipping from its grasp once again. The ocean tried so hard, and it never made it -- always just out of reach. 

He gazed into the sky, sky that surpassed even the ocean, and his face twisted, eyes pleading a shameless, silent cry. “I just… want to hold you. Again.” Had he said that out loud? Standing where the tide met the sand, his hands formed soft, wavering fists. That was all he had: fists ready to swing at nothing, and a voice ready to scream into the abyss. If he screamed now, and no one was around to hear it, would it make a sound? It’s not like he would try this selfish endeavor -- even if there were people around, no one would want to hear that. He didn’t blame them: he wouldn’t want to hear it, either.

“Hero?” A voice. A flower petal, floating in the breeze. He pivoted. 

“Mari?” There she was, a figure in the distance, face to the sea, hair billowing behind her as a cape would a queen. “Mari!” There she was, toes in the sand, eyes on the sky, and her name rolled off his tongue, and he ran. Jagged rocks surrounded him, but he paid no mind -- any path was a worthy one now. “Mari!” Mari was here, and he took in every detail. How she shone, a weightless beautiful, despite the gray clouds that smothered the daylight. How tiny flowers, white orchids, dotted her long sundress like stars. It was all too fitting. The clouds may have shut out most of the light, but he no longer needed a bright yellow ball in the air. His sun was here.

“Mari,” he gasped, out-of-breath and breathless all the same. Mari was here, and here he stood, right by her side. Invisible waves washed over him. Was this what it meant to feel relief? To have been here before, and to be here, now, again?

“Remember how we were when we were younger?” Mari spoke in soft syllables -- even the slightest of breezes would gladly carry her melody. 

“I… yeah.” He took a moment to respond. They had been here before. Before, he would have said what he felt without hesitation. Now, he knew better. He had to choose his words carefully. “Yeah. I miss it. I miss you, Mari.”

“You’re so brave.” Her face remained fixed, unmoving, gaze on the ocean. 

His heart skipped a beat. Why did her words still affect him so much? “Thanks. It means a lot.” Water swirled around their ankles once more. “Coming from you, I mean.”

“How are you handling your fear of spiders?” Her voice, again. 

He felt his cheeks go hot. Why was he still so embarrassed? “Ah… Mari. I’m sorry. You know how I am with spiders,” he responded, rubbing the back of his neck, diffident.

“You’re so cute when you get all flustered.”

“Mari!” His cheeks grew even hotter. Wait… Mari, gaze firmly on the ocean. How did she notice…

“You’re so brave. I really like that about you.” Come to think of it, he’d been so focused on her voice this whole time… had he even seen her full face? Was her voice always this monotone, melody on a sweet, single note, breeze carrying but one timbre to his ears? 

“Mari… will you look at me?” He was pushing too far now. He knew that, yet he couldn’t back down. Why was he like this?

“You’re so cute when you get all flustered.” She stood, and her gaze was on the ocean, and suddenly, everything seemed a little too familiar. She was the land, and he was the sea, and they had been here before.

He reached for her hand, but it wasn’t there, and when he looked back up, she was, but her body faced the ocean, and her face faced him, ninety degrees. She was a right angle, and it was so, so wrong. Her skin was clear, but it was deep blue, like the waves. Her tongue stuck out, and she always did that when he told a joke, but this time, there was no joke, and it wasn’t funny at all. Her eyes were open, and they were so wide, but her pupils were spiders, terrifying spiders, and then she was gone.

He tried to run, but it was so dark, so dark without her, and his feet wouldn’t move. He was stuck in the sand, and the waves were too big, too vast, too turbulent. They just kept coming, taller and taller, looming over him, and he would never escape if he couldn’t run at all. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He screamed as loud as his lungs would let him, but it was too late; the water rushed toward him, and his voice was drowned. He was going to drown. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, over and over until his voice broke and the ocean consumed him. So close, yet just out of reach.

*~*

Hero woke up drenched. Not from a crashing wave, but from his own sweat. It clung to his pajamas, stuck to his sheets -- it even mixed with the tears that had plastered themselves firmly onto his cheeks. Still gasping for air, he pulled his knees up to his aching chest, hugging tight. The wetness, he found, loved to pool around the sides of his pillow; it was his very own crown of tears.

He used to get these dreams a lot. Back when he woke up every night, heart constricting, panic gripping his entire body. Back when the fear would throb, pounding harder and harder until he inevitably screamed. Back when he would spend the rest of the night hyperventilating, and he couldn’t control it, and no one -- not even his mom, not even Kel -- could calm him down. Back when a crown of tears was the only one he could bring himself to wear. _They lost sleep for you._ He refused to think about it any further.

As most things did, the nightmares gradually lessened with time. For a while, he hadn’t gotten any at all. Last year, he shared a dorm with two other people, and not once did they complain of choked sobs or garbled screams littering their soundscape at 4 AM. Everything was different now, though. The dreams had come back -- almost full force some nights -- but he never woke up quite as terrified as he used to, and he didn’t know why. Had he changed? Had he stayed the same, and it was gravity trying to pull him back down? If he didn’t spend the rest of the night crying on the floor, was it really a nightmare at all? _You don’t have time to be scared of the imaginary._ That was true; at this point, he had much bigger fears to fry. 

The dreams just left him hollow now. It was an empty kind of sad, the sad that always left room for the hole he’d never be able to fill. _Shameless, huh? You really are pathetic._ He sighed. “Leave me alone.” Something shouldn’t be here right now. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, he didn’t feel like checking. Besides, his lamp was still on, light filtering familiar circles into his sheets. If anything, it served as a much-needed reminder: he was protected. He was safe. _You don’t deserve that._ “Please.” He gripped his sheets tightly. “Just leave me alone.” He didn’t deserve much, but surely he deserved at least a single moment alone. To his surprise, there was no response. “Thank you,” he exhaled, grateful. 

He could do anything he wanted with this moment, so he decided to think about all the times he and Mari had gone to the beach. Day trips, weekends -- the time both of their families had rented a shore house together for the week. Every trip had managed to be more memorable than the last, and though so much had changed as they aged, so much seemed to stay the same. Every trip, no matter when, no matter where, was pure. Pure like soft-serve not yet eaten, spiraled perfectly into a waffle cone. Pure like the small cove they visited each year, where the rocks were diamonds and the sunsets were rainbows refracting off of them. Pure like summers should be. 

There was a solace to be found in wallowing. It was strangely comforting -- peaceful, in the way they had been peaceful before. One memory was especially vivid: he and Mari had walked down to the ocean together, and though night had fallen, the shore was beautiful. Mari was beautiful, too. And they talked, and he didn’t remember what they talked about, but maybe that was what made it so special. They shared those words and they were bound, sealed in a clandestine moment of fate, with the ocean as their only witness. 

The ocean, he had come to realize, was a tragic paradox: it heard all, but remembered none. Would the ocean forget Mari, too? An alarm -- his alarm -- began beeping obnoxiously, putting an abrupt end to his thoughts. Perhaps he would return to his salty crown later. 

It was not a secret summer night, after all. It was 7:00 AM, and he had his first lecture, a required psychology course, at 8. Mornings with classes always followed a similar routine, and though he used to hate the monotony of getting ready, he had grown to cherish it. It was Something-less, and that was enough for him. 

Getting dressed was first. His pajamas were still uncomfortably damp from last night’s misadventure, but fresh, dry clothes instantly made him feel less like a sewer rat and more like a put-together individual -- the individual he needed to be. Some days, he would make his bed, but today was not one of them. The less he looked at his mangled sheets, the more confident he could make himself feel. 

Next came brushing his teeth, which was a game-changing affair. The dorm he stayed in had a hall bath, but each room got its own sink, so he could complete the most important step of his morning in private. It was much better that way. Presentability was everything, especially now, and getting to maintain that minty-fresh breath was a blessing he never failed to count. Every morning he would reach his sink, and every morning he would scrub away, ridding his mouth of plaque and paranoia alike. Anything could be covered up with enough minty-fresh. 

Only now, teeth brushed, would he look at himself in the mirror. A tired expression greeted him back… were his eye bags getting bigger? That could be easily excused -- one of the few benefits to his major. Look tired, and no one batted an eye. Ironically, everyone only seemed to think more highly of him for it. 

His hair was always the last step. He took pride in it. It was what people remembered him by, and it always appeared perfect; he made sure of that. Meticulously comb out the tangles, carefully apply some gel, fix it in his signature swoop. _Mari thought your hair was stupid._ No, she didn’t. She had always liked it. He looked in the mirror again, flashing his trademark smile. Finally, he had become himself. _Body like plastic. You’re a fraud._ His reflection began struggling before him. He didn’t have time for this.

Reflexively, his gaze settled on the smooth light of his lamp. It beamed at him. He beamed back. See? Nothing a smile couldn’t fix. Slipping his textbook and a chocolate-chip granola bar into his bag, he checked the clock again. 7:40 AM. Plenty of time. And better yet, the sun had now properly risen, its rays of light knocking at his window, begging to be let in. He obliged, opening his curtains all the way. They were welcome guests. 

It probably didn’t matter anymore, opening the curtains. His lamp provided more than enough light for a small room, and besides, the plants sitting on the windowsill were all fake anyway. Maybe it was simply a force of habit. His plants used to be real. All of his plants had been real, and he’d taken care of them, too. The last living plant he received to date was a gift, after... 

Tear-stained cheeks. Tangled hair. A once colorful porch, standing empty. “You can take care of things,” she had said, handing him the tiny plant, a single sunflower, after. He’d nodded then. _Liar._ He couldn’t save anyone if he tried. He picked up his keycard and left. He had class.

*~*

Consequently, today’s lecture was about classical conditioning. He had walked in right on time, to which he was immediately greeted by his teacher: “Professional as always, Hero! Punctuality will take you far!” His professor loved him. Maybe it was the punctuality: class started at 8, which meant that it really started at 8:10, because most students wouldn’t show up until around 8:15. Hero didn’t blame them; waking up was hard. He would know. 

“Ah, of course, Professor! That’s why I show up on time, after all,” he replied, shrugging. Modestly charming -- that was the game, and he played it well.

“Oh, you’re too funny. You really are a model student, huh?”

He laughed at that, warm expression never leaving his face. “Only if you say so!” He then went to his seat, scanning the room for any familiar faces. Small talk always worked best when it was just that: small. Setting his bag on the floor next to the empty desk, he sat down, opening his spiral-bound notebook to the next blank page. He then began writing down the date with another mechanical pencil. The lead flowed easily this time.

Classical conditioning… come to think of it, he knew quite a bit about Pavlov already. Not too great of a guy; he refused to understand how anyone could willingly hurt animals for science. Dogs just like Hector… so trusting, so loyal. The dogs trusted Pavlov, and he let them down. _They trusted you, and you let them down._ Something shouldn’t be here right now. Why did it have to keep bothering him?

As the lecture wore on, he continued diligently taking notes -- no term or definition would be missed. _Conditioned response: a learned response to a previously neutral stimulus._ Was that all he was? A series of conditioned responses? People are more than the products of what they learn, and still… 

Something comes to the window and he gives up for the night, goes to bed. Conditioned response. He wakes up in a cold, dripping sweat from dreams gone awry. Conditioned response. He opens his window all the way, even though he never needs to. Conditioned response. Someone engages with him, and he smiles. Someone asks him a question, and he smiles. Someone compliments him, and he smiles. Conditioned response, conditioned response, conditioned response. Had it always been that way? When was the last time he had genuinely meant it when he smiled? 

“Does anyone know what the conditioned response would be in this example?” The professor’s voice sliced through his thoughts.

He raised his hand -- he knew this. “Well, the conditioned response would be the dogs salivating to the bell tone, right?”

“Nicely done, Hero! And please, just shout it out next time. That goes for everyone, too. There’s no need for formalities here.”

“Okay.” He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pro Tip: Normalize blaming everything on the College Board! :)
> 
> Seriously though, I’d love to write more but my workload makes it tough! Feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
